


Little Life Raft (you were mine as well)

by Cards_Slash



Series: The Lightning Strike [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:05:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6668857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam always loved his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Life Raft (you were mine as well)

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from livejournal (from 2010)
> 
> written to the tune of Snow Patrol's The Lightning Strike

When he was young—like, too young to figure out that one and one did not equal eleven and their lives were the opposite of normal so he wasn’t ever going to have a dog or a home or anything of his own but everything of his and his brother’s and his father’s—his Dad told him the story of the day Sam was born and he told him the story of the day Sammy came home from the hospital. When he talked, late in the evening, sitting back against a borrowed bed at a hotel or a friend-of-a-friend’s with the stale smell of beer and gun-powder hanging around the edges of the room and his Dad’s clothes, his voice was like a fairy tale and just for the briefest second he sounded like a real person. In those moments, when Sam was curled up and half asleep in his father’s arms listening to the true stories of days long-long ago, he felt _safe_ and he felt _loved_ and he wanted to hang onto the moments with both hands and pull them into his chest where he’d be warm and safe forever.

\--

Dean didn’t _understand_ grief and he didn’t have _time_ for grieving because everything that Dean knew was wrapped up in monsters and family and whatever Sam was going through had nothing on what they were facing. He _tried_ , now and again, when they were in the car they’d grown up in and the music was at a lull between tapes and radio stations. Dean didn’t say anything, didn’t say _I’m sorry about Jess_ or _do you need to talk about it_ or even _we can stop_ because he probably didn’t even fucking know _how_.

Sam stared out the window and read through their Dad’s journal and newspapers and chased down leads to find things to kill and he told himself that the big, black hollow place in his chest was where he’d kept Jess. It burned like fire on the ceiling all around the edges and it didn’t matter how far he kept right on moving, it always came back to the thought of her face and the hot drip of her blood on his skin. He could _feel_ it on him long after and he could remember her face exactly how it had been when she died but he couldn’t remember how she looked when she smiled.

“Hey,” Dean said, “you remember that one time—”

Sam looked over at him, across the stretch of the Impala’s front seat and Dean was trying to grin at him. In his head (maybe), Dean had the memory of every minute of their lives and he kept them all locked away where they were safe from the weathering of time and the coloring of age. It was stupid, blind ignorance that kept Dean grinning at memories of their childhood and long hours and long drives and emergency field medicine like sewing stitches into each other’s skin when they should have been learning how to kiss and worrying about English essays.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed to the nothing Sam had said. He turned the tape over in the tape deck and turned the volume up loud enough to drown out the sound of the tires spinning and the road beneath them.

\--

Jess—

Sam loved Jess, he knew that like he knew his times tables and how to kill a werewolf. He knew it how he knew that he loved a mother he had never met who died when he was six-months-old. She was beautiful and she was kind-hearted and when she wrapped herself around him in the middle of the night he felt _safe_ and _wanted_ and _normal_.

He hadn’t ever lied to Jess but she hadn’t ever asked him about the things that came before her because they wrapped their lives up in what was happening right _now_ and what was going to happen tomorrow. When he had time he read over the paper and she told him stories she’d heard from around the campus—when their friends came over, she made a buffet of cheap chips and home-made cookies and boxed-just-add-water-and-bake brownies and laughed with everyone when they told terrible jokes while they watched terrible movies.

When he kissed her he felt the whole world opening up around him with a well of possibilities he’d spent half of his life thinking he’d never-ever get. So Sam loved her and the smell of her skin in the morning, the way her hair got frizzy on rainy days, the way she bit her lip when she read and scratched her elbow when she was thinking too hard about homework and how her legs felt wrapped around his body when they wrestled on the bed.

\--

“Dude,” Dean said outside of a motel room when they were going in to set up before they headed out to lie, “your face is bugging me. You need to get a different expression this is—this is just bringing me down, man and I can’t put up with it anymore.”

Sam smiled and didn’t mean it but Dean smiled back at him and _did_ and maybe when he snorted his lips curled up at the edges and he meant that.

Dean spun the key to the room on his finger and looked at him a half a breath too long. “I’m serious,” he said, “you’re bringing me down.”

Dean didn’t do _sympathy_ and he never did _concern_ but he did sarcasm and cynicism and when he nodded to himself more than to Sam and turned to get the door open what he meant to say was: _I’m worried about you and I love you_ and maybe he trusted Sam to figure that out or maybe he didn’t care if Sam did or not. Either way, the door was open and they were on another hunt to kill something another monster.

\--

Some things were easy to kill because they looked nothing at all like a Human. They were twisted and _wrong_ and when they died they left the world a better place and Sam could wrap himself up in that belief and carry it on his shoulders. He could tell himself that he was a warrior raised by a band of warriors and he didn’t have nightmares at night about how he was a murderer and a killer.

He was 13 when they killed a vampire. (All together, like a _family_.)

It looked just like anyone else on the street and when their father cut its head off it took two fast-hard-brutal falls of the machete before its head was rolling to the side with a hot spill and pump of blood across the hard-hard concrete floor. It’s mouth was open and its eyes were bright (too bright). The body made a sound like a groan as it went still and laid there and _bled_.

At thirteen he knew all about anatomy and he knew all about how the brain made the body work and how the blood would slow because the heart stopped and he knew that it would go stiff with rigor mortis and he knew that it was _dead_ and it wasn’t ever-ever coming back. At thirteen, Sam could understand the concept of hell and the concept of eternity and it hit him like the too-high wall of ocean water and it just _drown_ him and he fell.

Dean was there, against his side, grabbing his shoulder, shoving him back to look at his face. His hands were hurried and calloused and he dropped his machete to the side and his gun with a clatter like they were worthless. His hands were on Sam—on his chest and clawing at his sleeves, poking along his arms and his belly, he grabbed his face and turned it one way and then the other. “Sammy, are you alright—did you get bit? Sammy?”

“What’s going on?” was their father across the way. He kicked the vampire’s head (like a Human’s head) and it rolled back to the body and just _stared_ at them. Dean’s hands had been hurried but not hurtful and his voice had been wavering with concern not demand but their father was tight fisted and hard-eyes with the smell of blood on his clothes and fingers when he hauled Sam back to his feet. “Are you hurt?” he asked. “Dean, damn it what happened?”

“Nothing,” Dean said, “I didn’t see anything—he should be fine.”

“Damn it—” their father started.

“Leave him alone,” Sam snapped, “he didn’t do anything—I’m _fine_.” But he wasn’t and he pulled away from their father and wiped at the smears of a dead-man’s blood that were left on his jacket that he wouldn’t ever be able to wash out. Dean was just a stumble to one side and Sam ran into him and didn’t reach for his hand or hang onto him but he didn’t have to because Dean grabbed him by the sleeve—one fist balled up and pulling at him.

“Come on,” Dean said, “I told you to eat before we came out here, didn’t I? I told you that you were going to get tired chasing that vampire bastard.” He looked back over his shoulder at their father but Sam didn’t because he was stumbling forward while he was pushed.

\--

At a bar, after a hunt, Dean was celebrating another victory and toasting the powers of fire and salt and shotgun shells. He was broad-grinning and smooth talking to every lady in a short skirt that happened past him and his laugh was bawdy and insulting but they loved it. Whatever he made them feel—and Sam couldn’t imagine why they weren’t disgusted or insulted—he made them come back for more and more and more of it until he got the one he wanted and whispered sweet-and-dirty propositions into her ear about his car or his motel bed.

“Dude,” Sam said as he took a short drink off a tall bottle.

“Lighten up, Sammy!” Dean said like a plea masquerading as a command. He took a drink and smiled before it was all the way back on the table, winking at someone behind Sam’s shoulder and doing his ‘come on over here, honey’ face that always managed to get him what he wanted. “Seriously, Sammy, when’s the last time you got laid? Huh? We need you to get back on the saddle, man.”

“No we don’t,” Sam said.

“You’ll feel better,” Dean said, “I’ll feel better because I won’t have to keep looking at your bitch face.” He took another drink and held his arm out like the woman that was passing by was always meant to fit against his side. She must have felt the same because she slid right up against his side and put her arm right around him with a smile and a coy hello.

\--

Leaving was never about Dean so Sam didn’t even know why he couldn’t look him in the face before he left. He wasn’t even sure why he filled out college applications late at night at the library when there was nobody around to see him scribbling out words and making up what he didn’t have. He wrote his essays on school computers and asked his teachers to give them a look over and he spent hours in after-school clubs (wasting his time, their father said) building up a resume of involvement that would help him get into any college at all. He spent long hours on long hunts reading long books and working out long equations until he was blurry-eyed and drowsy and it was only the fear of death that kept him awake long enough to kill anything but himself.

The hunts were a second life, the life that wasn’t really his anymore and he knew it long before he finally admitted it. Oh, but the hunts were Dean’s only life and the only time he was alive with pink in his cheeks and a smile across his face that wasn’t forced-or-fake or full of lies. He was brilliant with his feet against the pavement and a loaded gun in his hands. He was vicious and hateful and _strange_. Sam watched him on the ground with another monster pinned beneath his body (in a graveyard) and he watched the blood-stained-silver as Dean stabbed the creature again-and-again until there were streaks of blood on his clothes and his hands and his face.

Sam stood at the side with his hand loose around a heavy knife and thought _I want you to come with me; I want to take you away_ and Dean looked at him with a smile across his face and spots of blood caught on his jaw. The blood steamed in the too-cold evening air but Dean was bright and brilliant and _living_ and he would never-ever leave.

Leaving was never about Dean, it wasn’t even about their father or this second life that wasn’t _his_ ; it was just something that Sam had to do for himself and he spent every night falling asleep trying to figure out how to explain what he felt in his chest when he knew that nobody else would ever understand him.

When he left, he left with one last screaming fight echoing across another borrowed room and he slammed the door on the second life that wasn’t his and he ran from it as fast as his legs could carry him. He slept in a bus station and he lied and hustled his way to Stanford and showed up in smelly clothes with nothing on him but a few dollars and a lot of dreams. He didn’t think about how he left without saying a word to Dean because leaving had _never_ been about Dean and maybe he’d trusted his brother to understand that.

\--

“Stop,” Sam said when Dean went to get out of the car on his own. He grabbed him across the front seat, twisted a fist in his coat and held him back. Dean should-have-could-have knocked him off any other day but his face was too pale and the sweat on his temples and his upper lip was heavy drops of nothing but pain working through his body.

When he spoke, it was a croak like it took every fucking part of his reserve to work it up and let it burst out of his mouth and all he said was, “Sammy.” His hand caught at Sam’s wrist to knock him off or to hang on and it was impossible to tell which. His fingers slipped and his body sagged and he closed his eyes as he took in a shuddering breath. The air was still cold all around them and the Impala was ticking itself to a sweet-good-night. They had a motel room waiting a few feet away from where they were sitting if they could just make it there without Dean falling on his face. When his eyes opened again they were just slits and he tipped his head to look at him and his smile was too-pale-pink and just tipped up at one side. “Just like old times, huh? Only I’m you and you’re…” His smile dropped and he stared at Sam like he wasn’t sure what he was even trying to say. “God,” he said next and lurched forward and grabbed at the door, “I need a drink.”

“Stay in the car, I’m coming around,” Sam said and kicked open the door. He pulled the keys and jogged around the front of the car but Dean was already falling out of the passenger side by the time he got there. “You never listen,” he said, “you never fucking listen.”

“I’m older,” Dean said like it even made sense anymore.

\--

It wasn’t like Sam didn’t know. There was no way to hide when their lives were shared in a single room with a kitchenette and a stained-and-yellowing bathroom. Everything that happened, happened right there, right in front of everyone and the only way you didn’t know was if you didn’t look. So, Sam always-always knew. But when he was young (like stories-before-bed young) they were more careful to keep their whispers to the side and when their father wanted to shout at Dean he was nice enough to take him out front on the other side of the door and the window to tell him all the ways he hadn’t done the right thing.

It was always the same thing—not fast enough, not strong enough, not clever enough, be faster, be stronger, be better, think-and-think and _look after your brother_.

So Sam knew that Dean was standing behind him in the bathroom rolling his eyes about having to watch a baby brush his teeth and that he’d rather be just about anywhere else in the world but he was right _there_ because their father made him be there.

When Sam got older, they didn’t hide and Dean didn’t fight back anymore either. He stood there with his arms at his sides and his face like a mask and he swallowed every word his father yelled at him, nodded and said _yes-sir_ and never questioned or objected or told their father he was full of shit. The words had changed because they had changed but when you stripped away the circumstances they were all the same.

Not fast enough, not strong enough, not clever enough, be faster, be stronger, be better, think-and-think and _look after your brother_.

Dean didn’t watch him brush his teeth anymore but he never left him alone at night when their father was gone and he watched him from the bed three feet that way while he did his homework and made sure he had something to eat even if he bitched about having to go out of his way to find something that Sammy-would-eat when there was a perfectly good diner that sold heart-attacks in a box right next door. Before they went to bed, Dean found a bottle of something brown and took a few drinks of it, slid the lid back on it and rattled it tight and lay down next to him.

Sam said, “good night, Dean” every single night and some nights he wanted to shove Dean toward the door and tell him to _go_ and maybe to _never come back_ because Dean was an old-old man in a young-man’s body and he never fell asleep before Sam did no matter how late he stayed awake or how hard he tried to pretend he was sleeping.

\--

Their father was _dead_ and nothing made sense in the world anymore. The yellow-eyed bastard had won in the end and the only thing that Sam had was the guilt in his gut, the hole in his chest and a brother with nothing in his eyes. He felt himself spinning in circles so fast he couldn’t keep up and when he pushed his head against the pillow at night and listened to the creak-croak-and moan of Bobby’s old house he tried to think around it but all he saw when he closed his eyes was _fire_.

\--

The first time Sam shouted back at his father he had been three years old and he didn’t remember but Dean liked to tell the story when he was drunk. He liked to change it around so Sammy was out of the bath and naked or in a towel with soap in his hair or toothpaste on his face. He liked to make up details about the city they were in or what the motel room looked like—or what was playing on TV. The only part of the story that never changed was what Sam yelled at his father when he climbed out of the bathtub and started shouting.

He yelled: _I can wash my own butt!_

If their father was around for the story he’d smile behind the gun he was cleaning or the newspaper he was reading and he’d nod his head like he remembered it too. They’d sit around—the three Winchester boys—and nod their heads and have a smile about a good memory and Dean would laugh first and their Dad would chuckle and Sam would laugh.

\--

Dean didn’t _grieve_ and he didn’t have _sympathy_ and Sam couldn’t say _anything_ that would make a damn bit of a difference to anyone but him. So he didn’t say a God-damn word. But when he found Dean outside in the Singer-Salvage Yard, sitting on the back of the Impala and drinking out of a long-neck bottle and looking at the stars winking down at them, he climbed up right next to him and accepted the second bottle that had been standing there just waiting for him. They both knew that their father had sold his soul; they both knew that he’d gone to hell. They both knew it in their bellies and in their chests and they were staring at heaven while their father was screaming in hell.

Maybe the thought should have been heavier on him but it wasn’t his father that made him heavy now—it was Dean next to him staring up at the sky and sipping his beer.

“Dean,” Sam said.

“Don’t,” Dean said like he was desperate, “just don’t, Sammy.”

\--

Sam loved Dean—he always had. He loved Dean as his brother and he loved him as a father and he loved him as a friend. When he was away (far away) he never forgot about Dean but he put him aside and out of his mind because Dean was wrapped up tight in that second life that wasn’t Sam’s and he wasn’t ever going to leave it because it was what he wanted (or just what he knew and either way, it was nothing that Sam wanted). Now and again he thought about making himself promises about how he would find a way to get Dean away from all of that shit—away from lying and killing and hustling and stealing and living in a car instead of a home. He would have made promises about fresh-baked cookies and home-cooked meals but he knew even while he was (far) away that Dean wouldn’t ever leave.

Dean did everything his father told him to and long after it made Sam angry, it made him sad and long after it made him sad it became just a fact and there was nothing he could do to change it. There was nothing he could offer his brother that would be more than what his father had taken away.

So Sam loved Dean like (everything) a brother and a father and the only good thing that he hadn’t wanted to give up about his other life. He was (far) away and lost in the world of hate-and-blood-and-fear-and-shadows with his salt and lead and fire. Sam was safe at Stanford lost in books and he thought about Dean on odd days at odd times and wished (sometimes) that it didn’t have to be—but it was.

\--

It broke wide open with a nor-easter pounding at the windows of a cheap motel and the power flickering on and off. Dean was holding a bottle of something brown, soaked down to his boots and stripping his shirt off one shoulder and shouting across the room, “if I’d been driving—”

“You would have killed us,” Sam shouted back. He yanked his shirts over his head and threw them into the tub in the yellowing bathroom. His jeans were sucked tight to his skin and getting them loose enough to get off was requiring more of his concentration than he had.

“Bullshit,” Dean said and dropped the bottle to get his shirt off. He threw it across the room at Sam, “if you’d let me drive we would have been out of the way of this fucking storm!” He pulled at his jeans and shoved at them and when they didn’t give immediately he looked like he was on the verge of finding a way to kill them for the offense. “Son of a bitch!”

“It’s not that bad,” Sam said, “we’ll sleep here tonight—”

“Not the point!” Dean shouted, “that’s not the point!” He sat on the edge of the bed in his shorts and yanked at his boots until they were rolling away from his feet like he kicked them. His socks were stained and wet and they were tossed at the wall and landed across the carpet.

Sam kicked his jeans into the bathroom and threw them in the tub with Dean’s wet shirts. “The point is you think you’re better than me—you couldn’t have gotten out of this storm, you’re just too stupid to stop once we were in it. _I_ don’t want to die.”

Dean grabbed the bottle and screwed off the lid and held it up to his lips—(always did)—and Sam couldn’t take it all at once and it was just too much so he crossed the room in his wet socks on the scratchy carpet and his shorts sticking to his thighs. He grabbed it out of Dean’s hand while it trembled at his lips and spilled it across his bare chest and legs and the floor and threw it at the door so it cracked and landed in puddle with the rainwater they’d let in.

“What the fu—” Dean snarled.

“I’m tired of watching you drinking,” Sam shouted at him, “Dad’s gone and you’re all I’ve got and I’m not—”

Dean was halfway to standing when Sam pushed him back on the bed, watched him bounce as he hit it and the way his eyes and mouth opened wide before his eyes went narrow and his lips went flat. His hands were pushing fists against the covers as he moved to fight back.

“Dean,” Sam said and put his hands up because he didn’t want to fight. “ _Dean_.”

Dean shoved himself to the side and stood up and shoved him when he headed toward the door to get the bottle. He wiped it off on his arm and looked at what was left and the cracked neck of it and took a drink even if it spilled all down his neck. He swallowed and stared at it and then crossed the room to the kitchenette and threw it in the sink so hard it shattered and sprayed against the wall behind it. His hands were tight on the edges of the counter, his arms were tight to his shoulders and he looked like he was breathing so hard he was shaking from the effort.

“Dean,” Sam whispered.

“Just shut up,” Dean said, “just _shut up_.”

No (just _no_ ), he wasn’t going to bite his tongue and keep his silence while he read between the lines of Dean’s words and actions until he found the truth in the lies his brother told him. He crossed the room with hard heels hitting the floor and caught Dean by the elbow and yanked him around—ducked away from the fist and shoved him back so his bare skin slapped against the edge of the counter. It must have hurt like a son-of-a-bitch because Dean was paralyzed by it for a breath. Sam thought he was going to scream at him, thought of all the bitter-twisted-ungrateful thoughts he’d had when he just wished Dean would _go away_ and just wanted him to _leave him alone_. This wasn’t a six-year-old who couldn’t be trusted to brush his own teeth but his big brother who couldn’t be trusted to take care of his fucking self. Dean was flushed and he was cold under Sam’s hands and he was staring at him with a twist to his eyebrows that was fury (and hurt) and everything Sam wanted to shout at him was lost.

“Dean,” he said and his hand was against Dean’s face and his thumb was tracing the water down his cheek. They’d spent their lives this far apart, living each other’s days back and forth until they fall apart and Dean looked at him like he was still just a fucking _kid_. “Why’d you come back for me?”

Why did you find me? Why did you take me away? Why—

Dean looked to the side, shifted on his feet, hand reaching up to slap Sam away and he’d find a way to dismiss it. He’d find a way to make it a joke, to make it a fight, to make it anything but the truth that was fractured between them.

Sam pulled his face back with two hands and he didn’t think before his body moved and he found himself with his mouth pressed against Dean’s. Their lips were cold and Dean was stiff with two hands against Sam’s chest like he was going to shove him back but he forgot what he meant to do as soon as his fingers touched skin. Sam stayed still, let Dean think about it for a spattering of seconds and then tipped his head to the side just enough and pressed forward against the kiss and the hands on his chest. He slid his hand down to Dean’s neck and let the span of his fingers trail the water down the nape of his neck to the hard bones in his spine.

Dean shook his head like _no, no, no_ or _I can’t_ but his hand grabbed Sam by the shoulder and the face and pulled him back and Dean was pressed against his body and leaning up, crashing their mouths together with no restraint at all. His body was shivering cold and Sam’s skin was covered in goose-bumps because they hadn’t even turned the heat on when they made it into the room. The kiss tasted like blood and liquor and Dean’s hands were rough and pulling too tight and too fast. His breath was punching out of his nose and his tongue was pressing too close with no finesse. It was blind frenzy and _please don’t leave me_ on repeat until it was a scream between them.

Sam curled both arms around Dean so tight he couldn’t get free and pulled him away from the counter and the sink with the stink of broken liquor bottle and they stumbled into the table because they were blind. Sam thought he should turn and look but he kept kissing while Dean started pushing at him to hurry-up, hurry-up and faster-faster-faster.

It was drowning them when they hit the bed, Dean over top of him, shoving at his arm pits and his chest until his head was on the pillow and then clawing at the blankets twisted up beneath his back. “Fucking cold,” Dean mumbled against his skin before he put both of his knees between Sam’s thighs and pulled the blanket over his back like a cape (or a tent they both could hide in). The lights flickered off and popped back on one more time as the wind and rail wailed at the window. Dean was low on his elbows and leaning in as close as he could without touching, Sam’s knees were tenting the blanket and his hands were tracing down the rasp of breath moving in Dean’s throat.

 _Don’t talk, don’t say a thing_ was in Dean’s eyes and right behind his lips and barely parted teeth. He ran his thumb across Sam’s lips and shook his head again and it was only Sam’s legs around him that kept him from running away to the car or the bathroom or wherever his naked feet could take him.

Sam caught him with two hands and two legs and pulled him back, down, against his body and kissed him again. It wasn’t a revelation and it wasn’t a wonder. It wasn’t guilt or disgust or worry or fear. It wasn’t desperation when he ran his hands down Dean’s arms and chest. It wasn’t drunk need or blind want because he knew what it was—he knew what he wanted and what he could give. He knew Dean’s scars and he knew his body and he stole another kiss and knew _that_ too. He knew he was hurting and he knew that he needed someone to make it _stop_ and Sam knew that there was nobody left in the world that could get his fucking close to Dean.

But it wasn’t that, and when he tipped his head back, Dean kissed his cheek and his throat and rocked his hips against him. His breath was a muffle against Sam’s throat, his words were the blunt edge of damp teeth on his shoulder but his body was rocking against him with caveman need.

“Take these off,” Sam said and pushed his thumbs into the waistband of Dean’s boxers. He inched them down and Dean twisted to get them off so he was all skin and all that was left was pulling Sam’s off.

Dean sat back on his knees, blanket sliding down his back, hand pushing through his wet hair and he shook his head again. “Dad’ll kill us,” he said. Because Dad would never-ever be dead as long as Dean remembered him in bright and living color. Everything he said and everything he’d done was right there inside of Dean where he kept all the memories of their lives for them. “Sammy,” he said, “we—”

“This you and me,” Sam said. He sat forward with his arms stretched out between the spread of his knees and pulled Dean back with his fingertips. When his back was on the scratchy sheets and his head against the pancake-thin pillow he kissed him again. He wrapped an arm around Dean’s shoulders and pulled him in tight, bit out, “fuck him,” and _meant_ it how he hadn’t ever meant it before. Curled another arm around Dean’s back and pulled him down until they were skin-on-skin with nothing between them.

Dean’s hands were under his shoulder blades and he pushed his face down against the heated curve in his neck.

It wasn’t _let me save you_ or _let me hold you_ it was _let me_ have _you I’ll never let go_.


End file.
